Speculations
by Kazoo Into It
Summary: Anne Darcy is ever disapproving of her parents' lovesick relationship. But just as she embarks on a quest to "help" them, a handsome scholar arrives, and Anne must decide who is more lovesick: her parents or herself. P&P and pending a better title.


Speculations 

**Summary**: Anne Darcy is absolutely sick of her parents, the lovesick fools that they are, and sets out to prove to them that being middleaged means being _un_romantic, _not_ the other way around. But just as her plan gathers force, a university student by the name of Edward Lirchen comes to visit, and Anne is stuck between proving that her parents are lovesick fools and trying to convince _herself_ that she's not.

*

         Generally speaking, it is an axiom of the utmost truth that a single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a highly accomplished wife.

         That had been the epithet that had drawn the young Miss Darcy's parents (or, at the very least, Miss Darcy's aunt and uncle) together; however, it was quite something else that had kept them together thus far—and that _wasn't_, as some may testify, solely an interest in each other's wits. No, as far as Anne Darcy was concerned, the unstoppable force, by some called a Work of God, by some called Sheer Bliss, but better known to Anne as Terrible Lunacy, was completely to blame for the matter at hand.

         After watching, for what she felt was the thousandth time, although in all reality it must have been only the nine-hundreth-and-ninety-nine, her father, known to his peers as Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, put his elbow in the butter dish in his great awe of his wife, known to most others as Elizabeth Darcy of Pemberley, she felt, most completely, that something must be done without further delay.

         However, the question remained as to _what_.

         Retiring to her room, she inquired of her maid:

         "Don't you agree, Mary, that something must be done about those two?"

         Mary inquired, most sincerely, as to what pair of persons the young Anne was talking about.

         "First off, I'm hardly young, Mary; nineteen in two weeks, you should well know; and second off, I should have expected you were quite aware I was referring to my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy," said Anne, with the air that suggested one who knew all.

         Mary shook her head resolutely in reply.

         "Miss Anne, I do tend to wish you'd not concern yourself over that; I believe they are, quite simply, completely and totally blissful with each other, and I see no reason as to why they should not be as such. You must know, they are often envied for their happiness together; lucky that your father was so rich, or perhaps your mother's parents would not have reacted quite so well to the match, which was entirely of love."

         "Good God, Mary!—You understand I am perfectly aware of their happiness together; I only wish it could be achieved in some other, more seemly, fashion: did you not see Mr. Darcy dip his arm into the butter this morning? A great deal of work must the washerwomen go through; grease is so hard to remove."

         Before Mary could protest, Anne barreled on:

         "I find it shameful, their devotion; marriage should be strict, and quite formal; I see no reason for emotions to get unnecessarily involved."

         "My, Miss Anne, you are a strange girl! You know that many women your age are harbouring hopes of a love match, one which perhaps will never be made, as young women tend to fall in love most unseemingly with the stableboys."

         Miss Darcy indicated her abhorrence of the thought; replied that although stableboys were all very well, they tended to be unsatisfactorily filthy, in addition to the fact that the stableboys in the Darcy stables were often of too decent a character, or too decent an age, for any joy to be found in the persual of such lads. She did not entertain the thought that her father would guarantee this for a reason, perhaps such a reason as she did now present; but Mary did, and hinted as much, but she was waved away by Anne, who then continued on with her former train of thought:

         "In all reality, I only wish they would demonstrate their devotions in some other form; although preferably abstaining from sonnets; as my father tends to pen such dreadful poems. Mother, for her part, is not often much better: her indecorous affection leads her to such sentimentality as is not often sought in writing; even Shakespeare held his tongue occasionally, and prevented such an outpouring of indecent emotions as spill forth from my mother's mouth when provoked."

         "Indecorous! Indecent!—Miss Darcy, your parents' marriage is of the utmost fidelity! That the thought should be suggested! I never!"

         As per her nature, Mary misinterpreted Anne's words and sought a different meaning; apparently, it was not as obvious to the maid as it was to Anne's own self that her parents' affections were quite improper: indeed, most of the household seemed to be in agreement that the Darcys' marriage was of the most extreme beauty: although consisting often of battles of wits (which Anne, in turn, enjoyed: a far better alternate, she deemed, to the common kisses, &c., which her parents most often employed) and disagreements, it was on the whole a rather admirable situation: love on both sides, and prosperity, at that.

         "Well! I reiterate my claim: that you are not in the least like your peers! I wish, Miss Anne, that you better your opinions of romance and marriage before you are dragged into a loveless match; and _then_ will you realize the error of your ways!"

         Mary promptly fell silent; gathering the dirty gown which Anne now stripped herself of, and relinquished in return for a lighter dress, as it was growing warmer (this awful autumnal weather!: although indubitably beautiful, it tended to be _most_ mercurial), she left, apparently quite shocked at her mistress' views regarding affection (Mary, it seemed, was an old romantic).

         Anne sat on her windowseat and sighed dismally.

         "Oh, fie!" she murmured. "That my whole household should not see the error of their ways! It is a most unfortunate coincedence: how ever am I to change things without support? I shall have to move quickly, but slyly: for although 'tis a sin, perhaps, to move in that manner, I worry that my parents will be far lost before long, and will lose all affection in an instant, and live their lives most unhappily. I do not abhor the idea of love: I only recognise it for its devious ways in which it moves; and for its peril. I fear that a love-filled match should be worse than a loveless one: for without love, the days are spent in vain; but with love, the days are spent in pain; and as I do not consider myself an object of vanity, I profess I should rather to live in vain than in pain; for at least in vain I do not no longer wish to live at all. Embrace life, then, as such!—and you shall find new tools, faithless Love: my parents will not be privy to your plots; and neither shall I. I declare I will marry (if I must marry at all; it seems a dreary thing to do) for money, and not for love, and Pemberley will be all the richer for it; and the only one lost in the matter shall be me. That is my plan, then, although it must await further development, as now I have a greater task to undertake: well, I shall move slowly, then, and wane their love and wring it, but gently, so as to be none the crueler to either party: I daresay I am rather fond of my parents, sick as they are with their affections."

         And so concluded Anne's thoughts; and not a moment too soon, for a carriage at that moment passed beneath her window. She raised her eyebrows curiously.

         "I did not know we had a visitor: perhaps he is unplanned; if so, I dread he shall be much disappointed: we have not aired out the north wing for nearly a fortnight: it must be quite damp and mouldy."

         With this thought, Anne her refrain concluded, and stepped back from the window, half her mind on the visitor and his temporary place of residence (i.e., the north wing), half on her parents and the difficult task of separating them, and crossed from her chamber, intent on warning elderly Mrs. Rogers, one of the copious housekeepers, of their mysterious guest.

*

Sorry that was so short. I may or may not find time to continue this, but I was kind of proud of how it turned out, so I decided to post it. Um, can you tell I just finished _Jane Eyre_? Parts of the writing style are distinctly Charlotte Bronte's, but oh, well. I just couldn't resist…

Also, I am in search of a better title. Hopefully one shall be uncovered sooner rather than later; or later rather than never at all.

Tell me if you liked it! _I.e_., review, please!


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